Red Dragon

Detective James Raymond squinted, just a little, as he examined the
small printed card held lightly between his fingers. The twisted,
dancing dragon was no bigger than the palm of his hand, but its ominous
blood-red shade had an aura of power that was almost tangible. Dwelling
on the image for a moment longer, he flipped the card over and read the
brief message inscribed on the other side:

THE RED DRAGON. TOMORROW NIGHT. BE THERE.

"The Red Dragon, huh?" Raymond sniffed, handing the card back to the
Chief of Police.

The Chief nodded urgently. "A crime syndicate that has been active in
this city for more than ten years. No ordinary scum-of-the-street
lowlifes. It's a highly organised covert operation." He took a quick
drag on his cigarette, then pressed on. "We've picked up a few of their
people in the past, but the ones who take the fall are only front men.
The top agents remain undercover, worming their way into society." He
hesitated again, wiping a hand across his sweaty, crumpled brow. "We
can't be sure how many men and women have pledged allegiance to that
damned symbol. It could be anyone. People in power or the people next
door. We've got to flush this filth right back into the gutter."

The Chief's sombre tone was slightly at odds with his animated
expressions of disgust. Withered features and a reclining hairline
revealed that he was fast approaching retirement age, but Raymond knew
that his superior would never quit while the Dragon's heart was still
beating. Along with a regular diet of caffeine and nicotine, the Chief
seemed to thrive on his contempt for the 'filth' and 'lowlifes' out
there. It kept him motoring along behind that desk, pushing pens and
barking orders at those around him.

"Do not underestimate these people," the Chief warned, as he produced a
clutch of black-and-white photographs from an envelope. "They're smart
- very smart. I've never come across a gang so adept at covering their
tracks. Even the ones we've caught have convinced themselves they don't
know anything. They've been getting away with murder, literally, for
far too long." He paused, with a sudden air of significance. "But not
anymore."

Raymond eyed the photo of a busy uptown night club, the name displayed
in glowing letters above the doors: THE RED DRAGON.

"As far as most people are concerned, a respectable night club and
restaurant. Fully licensed and entirely legal," the Chief stated, his
tone growing more venomous. The next photograph presented a
smooth-looking man adorned with a slick moustache. "You'll recognise
Jerome. The Dragon's leader. To the public, a distinguished night club
owner, as clean as a whistle. No criminal record." The Chief slammed an
angry fist on the desk, jarring his cup of coffee. "That bastard's
laughed in our faces for years, but he won't be laughing much
longer."

"I don't get it," Raymond responded, a quizzical look crossing his face
as he came to the picture of a large Oriental man with a menacing
stare.

"His name is Ming. He's a Japanese crimelord, perhaps the most powerful
currently at large. His organisation has already swallowed up all the
smaller gangs and now they're playing away from home. He wants a base
of operations in this city, and that means moving in on Red Dragon
territory. And just to make his intentions clear, he has re-christened
his own gang the Black Dragon."

Raymond waited as the Chief drained the rest of his coffee, then
continued. "Now, this isn't the first time a rival gang has tried to
cross the Red Dragon. But none has ever succeeded, because every time,
the leader of the gang -"

"- was rubbed out," Raymond cut in.

"Correct," the Chief said sharply, as he slammed down one final photo
on the desk, next to the card with the Dragon insignia. The photo
depicted a handcuffed man being escorted from a police car, his left
sleeve rolled up to reveal a tattoo of that same sinister Dragon
symbol. "This man was arrested early this morning, attempting to breach
Ming's hotel room. When we brought him downtown, he passed that card to
an officer. He claims he was worried that this gang warfare would
spiral out of control, and was trying to warn Ming off."

Raymond raised an eyebrow. "And you believe him?"

"Maybe," the Chief replied. "He was unarmed. And besides, that kind of
direct approach isn't the Dragon's style. We know this much for sure -
Ming has been invited to the club tomorrow night, supposedly to discuss
a 'mutually beneficial' deal. I doubt that Jerome intends him to leave
the place alive, but it's your job to see that he does."

"Me?" The detective seemed genuinely surprised.

"You're our best man, Raymond. You're the one who can bring down the
Red Dragon. If we can get Jerome on an attempted murder charge, we can
put them out of business for good."

Raymond pondered this for a moment, then leaned across the desk and
spoke in a low voice. "What about the Japanese? I mean, frankly, won't
the Red Dragon be doing us a favour by getting rid of this guy? How
many crimelords do we need?"

The Chief shook his head firmly. "I take your point. But Japan believes
Ming to be simply a wealthy entrepreneur. No more proof exists of his
criminal activities than those of Jerome. If word leaked that we knew
about this all along, we would be held responsible for Ming's death -
and we don't want an international incident. Besides, the Japanese are
not our problem. We have to deal with our own criminal scum
first."

"Okay," Raymond agreed, a touch hesitantly. "What do I have to
do?"

"Be at the club tomorrow night. Wait for the Red Dragon to make their
move, but prevent them getting to Ming. Let the Japanese leave safely.
It's Jerome we want."

Raymond whistled. "Who the fuck am I, James Bond? What about
back-up?"

The Chief shook his head again. "Too tricky. It's going to be tough
enough just getting you inside. Entrance to this place is strictly
invitation only. But we have adequate time to prepare and with the help
of our tattooed friend, we've managed to set up a cover for you. You'll
be posing as a waiter - that means you'll be able to keep an eye on
both staff and clientele. And just to make things smoother, I've
arranged for a transfer resembling the Red Dragon design to be
imprinted on your arm. But once inside, you're on your own."

Raymond's tough, hardened attitude had been well earned from fifteen
years on the force. Still, he seemed vaguely reluctant about the
assignment.

"Look," the Chief assured him, "I'll have officers stationed outside
the whole time, ready to move in at the first sign of trouble. But we
have to wait for Jerome to play his hand. The situation's too delicate
to blow it, and we won't get a chance like this again." He sighed
heavily as he glanced once again at the Dragon sign. "This is a symbol
of all the corruption and decay in this city. Putting Jerome behind
bars is the first step in wiping it out for good."

* * * * *

A harsh crimson glare penetrated the misty window, and his eyes
flickered at the sudden intensity. Wiping his sleeve across the glass,
Raymond peered out at the crowd gathering outside the night club,
jostling each other on the rain-slicked pavement. Beneath the dazzling
neon lights, a pair of sharp-suited bouncers kept the crowd in order,
admitting selected guests only. From the outside, the place resembled
any other classy evning venue to be found in the city - polished,
atmospheric, faintly seedy. But that overwhelming shade of red
suggested something more - a place of power, of purpose. The sensation
lingered with him as the nondescript car cruised past the club and
turned off the street, leaving the lights to gradually fade into the
distance

"This is as close as we get, Raymond," the driver told him, as the car
slid to a halt. "You take it from here. It should be easier to approach
from this side."

"Just make sure you stay alert," Raymond replied. "We'll only get one
shot at this."

Stepping from the vehicle, he smoothed a slight crease from his tuxedo.
The earlier fall of rain had left the night air clean and fresh.
Drawing a sharp breath, he strode back toward the club, his mind wholly
focused on the job, on the role he had to play.

As the iron gate swung open, Raymond paused for a second to let his
eyes adjust to the gloom. The yard was quiet, desolate. Crossing the
barren enclosure, he headed toward the rear entrance. An imposing
figure loomed suddenly in the doorway. A bouncer at the kitchen door?
Security was tight tonight.

"Restaurant staff," he told the guard, flashing the false security pass
he had been issued with. The bouncer inspected this, then stared at
Raymond with a hint of suspicion.

"You don't look familiar," he growled. "Got any other ID?"

Calmly, Raymond rolled up his sleeve and exposed the fake insignia on
his left arm. The bouncer nodded and held open the door. Stepping
inside, Raymond allowed himself a discreet smile. His disguise was
convincing.

So far so good... he thought, an instant before he felt cold steel
press against his neck. He froze, his mind racing... What the hell...
this isn't part of the plan...

Then strong hands grasped his shoulders and shoved him roughly against
the wall. As his jaw scraped on the surface, the bouncer's voice rasped
in his ear.

"Don't you make a fucking move. This'll just take a minute."

Raymond's discomfort intensified as his legs were forced apart and his
palms flattened against the wall. With his head twisted awkwardly to
one side, he was painfully aware of hands slapping against his ribs as
the gun barrel bored into his neck. Then, as suddenly as it had
arrived, that hostile pressure was gone, and he found himself able to
breathe again.

"It's okay, he's clean," said the voice, followed by the click of a
safety catch.

Rubbing his bruised neck, Raymond turned to see the bouncer sliding the
gun back inside his jacket. Standing behind him, a man in a white suit
was examining Raymond's security pass.

Jesus, that was close... Raymond thought... They didn't warn me to
expect anything like that.

The white-suited man stepped forward. "We've been expecting you."

"Yeah?" Raymond was unsure exactly how to react. "That was some
welcome."

"Absolutely neccessary, I'm afraid. All new staff get the same
treatment. Sorry for the inconvenience, but we're taking no chances.
Jerome doesn't want any problems tonight." He handed back the pass and
offered a firm handshake. "I'm in charge of the restaurant here. Now,
come with me. There's work to do."

Raymond shot the bouncer a disgruntled look, then followed the manager
through to the kitchen. The place was a hive of activity, buzzing with
the atmosphere of busy professionalism.

"Take these to the buffet table," the manager instructed, handing
Raymond a tray of cocktails. "Remember, this is a very important night.
I expect you to attend to anything the guests need."

Here we go... Raymond told himself, as, parting a silky scarlet
curtain, he entered the smoky restaurant and mingled with the bustling
crowd. That smothering red aura was everywhere, permeating the entire
room - the lights, the walls, the carpet. It could have seemed tacky,
but there was something alluring, even sensuous about it. Concentrating
on the job at hand, Raymond swept over the room with a sharp gaze. A
skimpily dressed woman was dancing to soft music on stage. Directly
below her, Jerome was seated at the head of a red-clothed table, his
Dragon tattoo displayed proudly on his arm.

As he placed the cocktails at the buffet, Raymond was aware of a low
hush sweeping over the restaurant. He turned to see the crowds parting
as a huge, powerful-looking Japanese man strode across the room,
surrounded by bodyguards. The Black Dragon had arrived.

The crowd remained silent as Jerome rose and bowed to the awesome
newcomer. "Greetings, Mr Ming. We are honoured to have you grace our
humble establishment. Let us hope your stay will be a lengthy one." He
gestured for his visitor to be seated.

Ming appeared unimpressed, but sat at the chair offered at the other
end of the table. "No time for pleasantries, Jerome. I am here to
settle our... business problem."

"Of course," Jerome agreed. "I too am anxious to close the matter, and
close it permanently. But first..." He snapped his fingers and beckoned
to the nearest waiter. "Bring us cocktails."

"At once sir," Raymond replied, realising he was being spoken to. He
drifted off into the crowd.

Jerome offered his guest a reassuring smile, but the larger man glared
impassively. Life slowly began to return to the restaurant and the
female dancer resumed moving to the music. A moment later, Raymond
returned.

I'm waiting... The detective said to himself, as he placed the tray
carefully on the table... When are you gonna make your move,
Jerome?

Sipping his cocktail, Ming cast an admiring glance toward the woman
performing on stage, as Jerome enquired; "Is the restaurant to your
liking? We are immensely proud of our standards here."

"The decor is not to my taste," Ming replied, taking another sip. "I
find the emphasis on red rather garish, but no matter. I can easily
arrange for remodelling at a later stage."

Jerome chose this moment to drop his mock pleasant facade. Leaning
forward slightly, he looked his opponent in the eye "Do you really
think you can just stroll in here and cut a piece of our pie. I'm
afraid life isn't that simple, my friend."

Ming offered the merest hint of a smile, his composure not weakening
for a second. "You misunderstand me. Perhaps I should explain my agenda
once more. I intend to have all your pie... and eat it too."

Raymond hung back with the crowd, watching the scene unfold. He was
tense, ready to react the moment the Jerome laid his cards on the
table. For a moment, he wondered if the Japanese were going to try
something themselves. Or was this Ming character really arrogant enough
to think he could just walk into the Dragon's nest and act like he
owned the place?

"Let me make my position clear," Ming was saying in that deep,
impassioned voice. "I want this place and everything that comes with
it... except of course, for you. But I am an honourable man. I will
give you the chance to leave this city of your own accord, before I
take such a decision for you."

Big mistake pal... Raymond mused, shifting his gaze back to Jerome....
Honour among thieves, maybe, but not gangsters.

He knew he had been chosen for this job because he could stay calm
under pressure. Still, his fingers were itching to grasp a trigger, and
he craved the satisfaction that would come from popping a cap in that
smug face.

No, not yet... He told himself, restraining the urge... No good taking
him out on the spot. Stick to the plan.

"Of course, it will be painful for you to depart after such a long
period of time, but be assured..." Ming continued, "...I can easily
arrange for your method of exit to be even more painful." Having stated
his case, the mammoth crimelord leaned back, and almost seemed ready to
relax.

Now it was Jerome who held an intense, unwavering pose. "You're out of
your depth, my friend. The Red Dragon run this city. It is truly a pity
that you have failed to comprehend this."

The wall of tension between the rival Dragon leaders weakened slightly
as Ming's attention was distracted. The lithe creature at whom he had
been staring lustfully had descended from the stage and was slinking in
his direction. Ming felt his breath quicken as she slid up onto the
table and crawled toward him, purring gently. The crimelord's
lieutenants stood there, smirking at this erotic exhibition.

Fools... Raymond shook his head in disgust... Can't they see what's
going on here?

Ming's complexion reddened as the woman reached over and loosened his
tie, caressing his neck. He barely noticed as a waiter approached the
table and deposited a silver platter on a tray. Before he even knew
what was happening, the girl had lifted the lid and grabbed hold of the
pistol revealed underneath. Then she gripped the gangster's tie and
began to throttle him, jamming the gun against his neck with one flex
of her supple muscles. For an eternal second, Ming felt his heart
pounding furiously against his chest, as the glass slipped from his
hand and shattered on the floor. Spluttering helplessly, he felt the
ugly taste of defeat in his throat as Jerome flashed him a satisfied
grin.

The Japanese gang were transfixed with horror, but Raymond wasted no
time. Springing out of the crowd, he seized the dancer's arm, clamping
a strong hand onto her wrist. The shot fired above the screaming crowd
as he snatched the gun away. Panting heavily, Ming was pulled away from
the table by his men, while his would-be assassin turned on Raymond
instead. The woman spun around in a fluid karate move, aiming to kick
her opponent squarely in the chest. This time, Raymond was ready for
the assault. Ducking clear of the blow, he dived forward and punched
her, hard, across the jaw.

Another waiter moved to restrain him, but Raymond lashed out and caught
him with the butt of the pistol. The man dropped, blood streaming from
his nose, and cries of panic erupted across the restaurant. Several of
Jerome's men had drawn their weapons, but Raymond was faster. With a
swift kick, he sent the table crashing over, and aimed the gun directly
at the Red Dragon leader.

"Drop your weapons!" he yelled. "Everybody!"

"Do as he says!" Jerome ordered.

The room fell into an anguished silence as, one by one, guns clattered
to the floor. Still levelling his weapon at Jerome, Raymond faced
Ming.

"You should leave now," he said in a low, urgent voice.

Ming nodded aggressively, then pointed a threatening finger at Jerome.
"You will pay dearly for this insult," he spat. "The vengeance of the
Black Dragon will be upon you!" The huge man turned and strode away,
his bodyguards meekly trailing behind.

Jerome looked Raymond in the eyes. Slow seconds ticked by, as the
gaggle of awe-struck faces in the crowd looked on. Finally, Jerome's
face broke into that familiar, oily smile.

"Are you going to kill me?" he asked.

Raymond smiled too, and squeezed the trigger.

* * * * *

The members of the Black Dragon left the night club in sleek
limousines. The silent Ming sat in the back of the lead car, shrouded
in darkness. His bodyguard, riding up front, was desperate to speak, to
break the screaming, deafening silence. Yet he was equally terrified to
say anything. The guard knew he had failed his leader, that if not for
the mystery saviour who had come from nowhere, Ming would be dead, and
very likely the rest of them would be too. He swallowed hard, trying to
cope with the soundless noise. But it was too much. Finally, he forced
a hesitant, stuttered sentence.

"We... we will avenge your tainted honour, master. This... I promise
you." The guard bit his lip, regretting the words instantly, and braced
himself for the cataclysmic fury that was sure to come. But nothing
happened. Glancing into his rear-view mirror, the guard saw a pallid,
frozen face staring back at him. Drained of colour... drained of
life.

"Pull over!" the guard cried, and the panicking driver quickly obeyed.
The guard leapt out of the car and grasped the handle of the rear door,
then froze as a cold sensation of fear rose in his chest. Ming's head
was slumped awkwardly against the window, but no breath escaped his
lips to steam up the glass. The guard opened the door and watched in
dread as his master's body plunged forward, sprawling lifelessly onto
damp concrete.

* * * * *

Stooping over the bathroom sink, Raymond splashed water on his left arm
to wash away the bogus tattoo. After some effort, the false print
gradually faded. Drying himself with a towel, he wandered through to
the lounge, where pictures unfolding on the TV screen caught his
attention.

"...pending further investigation, the club is closed until further
notice..." a reporter was dramatically informing viewers. "Police have
yet to reveal exact details, but unconfirmed reports suggest one man
was shot dead and several others injured during the
disturbance..."

Raymond listened carefully, but his concentration was broken when he
heard the telephone ring. Wiping the last drops of water from his arm,
he answered the call.

"Raymond, that was some fine work last night!" the Chief's voice
crackled down the line. "Plenty of those Dragon scum are now in custody
and will soon be rotting in jail where they belong. You can count on a
big bonus for this one."

"Look, Chief..." Raymond began. "About the shooting..."

"There's no need to explain," the Chief broke in. "Witnesses have
vouched that you were forced to shoot Jerome in self-defence." He
paused for a second, and his voice took on a faintly conspiratorial
tone. "Look, don't worry about it. You did what you had to. Excessive
force is all part of the job when you take on scum like that."

"I'm glad you understand," Raymond replied.

"Again, Raymond - good work. Thanks to you, the Red Dragon is
crumbling."

Raymond hung up the phone and allowed himself a broad smile, as a surge
of contentment coursed through him. He wondered just what the Chief was
going to do without that criminal world that he despised so much.
Didn't he realise that he was just one side of the coin?

The phone rang a second time.

"Raymond speaking," the detective said, pressing the receiver to his
ear.

"Excellent work, my friend," the voice at the other end of the line
gently hissed.

Raymond made no reply, but listened intently.

"The poison you added to the cocktail will leave no trace in Ming's
bloodstream. With him gone, the Japanese threat is eliminated. And now
that the police believe me dead, they will make no effort to interfere
with my future activities. Sacrificing some of our lesser agents was
well worth it. Thanks to you, the Red Dragon will soon dominate this
city."

Jerome's laughter echoed from the telephone as Raymond replaced the
receiver. Rubbing his left arm, he saw that there was no trace left of
his fake tattoo. Then he dug his fingers into his skin and ripped away
the false layer of flesh, uncovering the genuine image of a dancing red
dragon beneath.